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The Bird of Time 

Songs of Life, Death ^ the Spring 
'Bj Sarojini Naidu 

fFit/i an Introduction by 
Edmund Gosse 

And 
Portrait of the Author 



New York : John Lane Company 

London : William Heinemann 
1912 



7-7 



Printed hi England 



Gift 
Fubiishoy 



dA^ '■ ••'^^ 



DEDICATED 

'm TOKEN OF LIFE-LONG HOMAGE AND' 
AFFECTION 

r& 

MY FATHER 
AGHORENATH CHATTOPADHYAY 

-AND 

MY MOTHER 
SRIMATI VARADA SUNDARI DEVI 



tvDERABAD, DeCCAN 

May 1912 



The bird of lime has but a little way 
To fly . . . and, lo ! the bird is on the wing " 



Introduction 

/T is only at the request^ that is to say at 
the command^ of a dear and valued Jriend 
that I consent to write these few sentences. 
It would seem that an " introduction " can only 
be needed when the personage to be " introduced'' 
is unknown in a world prepared to welcome 
her but still ignorant of her qualities. This is 
certainly not the case with Mrs. Naidu^ whose 
successive volumes^ of which this is the third, 
have been received in Europe with approval, 
and in India with acclamation. Mrs. Naidu 
is, I believe, acknowledged to be the most accom- 
plished living poet of India — at least, oj those 
who write in English, since what lyric wonders 
the native languages oj that country may be 
producing I am not competent to say. But I do 
not think that any one questions the supreme 
place she holds among those Indians who choose 



to write in our tongue. Indeed^ I am not dis- 
inclined to believe that she is the most brilliant^ 
the most original^ as well as the most correct^ of 
all the natives of Hindustan who have written 
in English. And I say this without prejudice 
to the fame of that delicious Toru Dutt^ so ex- 
quisite in her fragility^ whose life and poems it 
was my privilege to reveal to the world thirty 
years ago. For in the case of Toru Dutt^ 
beautiful as her writings were, there was much 
in them to be excused by her youth, her solitude, 
the extremely pathetic circumstances of her brief 
and melancholy career. In the maturer work 
of Mrs. Naidu I find nothing, or almost nothing, 
which the severest criticism could call in question. 
In a gracious sentence, published seven or eight 
years ago, Sarojini Naidu declared that it was 
the writer of this preface ''^ who first showed ^^ 
her " the way to the golden threshold''' of poetry. 
This is her generous mode of describing certain 
conditions which I may perhaps be allowed to 
enlarge upon so far as they throw light on the 
contents of the volume before us. It is needless 
for me to repeat those particulars of the Indian 



poefs early life^ so picturesque and so remarkable^ 
which were given by Mr. Arthur Symons in the 
excellent essay which he prefixed to her volume 
0/1905. Sujjcient for my purpose it is to say 
that when Sarojini Chattopddhyay — as she then 
was — -first tnade her appearance in London, 
she was a child of sixteen years, but as unlike 
the usual English maiden of that age as a lotus 
or a cactus is unlike a lily of the valley. She 
was already marvellous in mental maturity, 
amazingly well read, and far beyond a Western 
child in all her acquaintance with the world. 

©y some accident — now forgotten, but an 
accident most fortunate for us — Sarojini was 
introduced to our house at an early date after 
her arrival in London, and she soon became one 
of the most welcome and intimate of our guests. 
It was natural that one so impetuous and so 
sympathetic should not long conceal from her 
hosts the fact that she was writing copiously in 
verse — in English verse. I entreated to be 
allowed to see what she had composed, and a 
bundle of MSS. was slipped into my hand. I 
hastened to examine it as soon as I was alone ^ 

3 



but now there followed a disappointment^ and 
with it an embarrassment^ which, in the face of 
what followed, I make no scruple of revealing. 
The verses which Sarojini had entrusted to me 
were skilful in form, correct in grammar and 
blameless in sentiment, but they had the dis- 
advantage of being totally without individuality. 
They were Western in feeling and in imagery ; 
they were founded on reminiscences of Tennyson 
and Shelley ; I am not sure that they did not 
even breathe an atmosphere of Christian resigna- 
tion. I laid them down in despair ; this was but 
the note of the mocking-bird with a vengeance. 

It was not pleasant to daunt the charming 
and precocious singer by so discouraging a judg- 
ment ; but I refected on her youth and her 
enthusiasm, and I ventured to speak to her 
sincerely. I advised the consignment of all 
that she had written, in this falsely English 
vein, to the waste-paper basket. I implored 
her to consider that from a young Indian of 
extreme sensibility, who had mastered not merely 
the language but the prosody oj the West, what 
we wished to receive was, not a rechauffe of 
4 



Anglo-Saxon sentiment in an Anglo-Saxon set- 
tings but some revelation of the heart of India, 
some sincere penetrating analysis of native 
passion s of the principles of antique religion 
and of such mysterious intimations as stirred 
the soul of the East long before the West had 
begun to dream that it had a soul. Moreover , 
I entreated Sarojini to write no more about 
robins and skylarks, in a landscape of our 
Midland counties, with the village bells sotne- 
where in the distance calling the parishioners to 
church, but to describe the flowers, the fruits, 
the trees, to set her poems firmly among the 
mountains, the gardens, the te?nples, to introduce 
to us the vivid populations of her own voluptuous 
and unfamiliar province ; in other words, to be 
a genuine Indian poet of the Deccan, not a clever 
machine-made imitator of the English classics. 

With the docility and the rapid appreciation 
of genius, Sarojini instantly accepted and with as 
little delay as possible acted upon this suggestion. 
Since 1895 she has written, I believe, no copy 
of verses which endeavours to conceal the ex- 
clusively Indian source of her inspiration, and 

c 5 



she indulges with too enthusiastic gratitude the 
friend whose only merit was to show her " the 
way to the golden threshold.^'' It has been in 
her earlier collections^ and it will be found to 
be in this^ the characteristic of Mrs. Naidus 
writing that she is in all things and to the fullest 
extent autochthonous. She springs from the 
very soil of India ; her spirit., although it employs 
the English language as its vehicle^ has no other 
tie with the West. It addresses itself to the 
exposition of emotions which are tropical and 
primitive., and in this respect., as I believe, if the 
poems of Sarojini Naidu be carefully and deli- 
cately studied they will be found as luminous in 
lighting up the dark places of the East as any 
contribution of savant or historian. They have 
the astonishing advantage of approaching the 
task of interpretation from inside the magic 
circle, although armed with a technical skill 
that has been cultivated with devotion outside 
of it. 

Those who have enjoyed the earlier collec- 
tions of Mrs. Naidu s poems will find that in 
" The Bird of Time " the note of girlish ecstasy 
6 



has passed^ and that a graver music has taken 
its place. She has lived — and this is another 
facet of her eminent career — in close companion- 
ship with sorrow ; she has known the joy and also 
the despair of consolation. The sight of much 
sufering, it may be, has thinned her jasmine- 
garlands and darkened the azure of her sky. It 
is known to the world that her labours for the 
public weal have not been carried out without 
deep injury to her private health. But tliese 
things have not slackened the lyric energy of 
Sarojini ; they have rather given it intensity. 
She is supported, as the true poet must be, by a 
noble ambition. In her childhood she dreamed 
magnificently ; she hoped to be a Goethe or a 
Keats for India. This desire, like so many 
others, may prove too heavy a strain for a heart 
that 

^'■Couvrit comme une fleur profonde 
Dont Fauguste corolle a pridit r orient^"* 

But the desire for beauty and Jame, the magni- 
ficent impulse, are still energetic within this 
burning soul. 

7 



These few words I venture to bring to a close 
with a couple of sentences from one of her own 
latest letters : " While I live, it will always he 
the supreme desire of my Soul to write poetry 
— one poem, one line of enduring verse even. 
Perhaps I shall die without realising that longing 
which is at once an exquisite joy and an unspeak- 
able anguish to me.^^ The reader of'''' The Bird 
oj Time'' will feel satisfied that this her sad 
appreliension is needless. 

EDMUND GOSSE 



Contents 

Introduction by Edmund Gosse I 



PAGE 



Songs of Love and Death 

The Bird of Time ii 

Dirge : In sorrow of her bereavement 13 

An Indian Love Song 15 

In Remembrance : Violet Clarke 18 

Love and Death 20 

The Dance of Love 2i 

A Love Song from the North 23 

At Twilight : On the way to Golconda 25 

Alone 27 

A Rajput Love Song 28 

b ix 



A Persian Love Song 


31 


To Love 


32 


Songs of the Springtime 




Spring 


35 


A Song in Spring 


37 


The Joy of the Springtime 


39 


Vasant Panchami : Lilavati's Lament at the Feast 




of Spring 


40 


In a Time of Flowers 


43 


In Praise of Gulmohur Blossoms 


45 


Nasturtiums 


47 


Golden Cassia 


48 


Champak Blossoms 


50 


Ecstasy 


52 



Indian Folk-Songs 

To Indian Tunes 

Village Song 57 



PAGE 

Slumber Song for Sunalini 59 
Songs of my City : 

I. In a Latticed Balcony 61 

II. In the Bazaars of Hyderabad 62 

Bangle-sellers 64 

The Festival of Serpents 66 

Song of Radha the Milkmaid 68 

Spinning Song 70 

Hymn to Indra, Lord of Rain 72 

Songs of Life 

Death and Life 77 

The Hussain Saagar 78 

The Faery Isle of Janjira 79 

The Soul's Prayer 81 

Transience 83 

The Old Woman 84 

In the Night 86 

At Dawn 87 

xi 



PAGE 



An Anthem of Love 89 

Solitude go 

A Challenge to Fate q2 

The Call to Evening Prayer gr 

In Salutation to the Eternal Peace 07 

Medley: A Kashmeri Song oo 

Farewell lOi 

Guerdon 1 02 



Songs of Love and Death 



The Bird of Time 

O Bird of Time on your fruitful bough 
What are the songs you sing ? . . . 
Songs of the glory and gladness of life. 
Of poignant sorrow and passionate strife. 
And the lilting joy of the spring ; 
Of hope that sows for the years unborn. 
And faith that dreams of a tarrying morn. 
The fragrant peace of the twilight's breath. 
And the mystic silence that men call death. 

O Bird of Time, say where did you learn 
The changing measures you sing ? . . . 
In blowing forests and breaking tides. 
In the happy laughter of new-made brides, 

II 



And the nests of the new-born spring ; 

In the dawn that thrills to a mother's prayer, 

And the night that shelters a heart's despair, 

In the sigh of pity, the sob of hate, 

And the pride of a soul that has conquered fate. 



12 



Dirge 

In sorrow of her bereavement 

What longer need hath she of loveliness 
Whom Death has parted from her lord's caress ? 
Of glimmering robes like rainbow-tangled mist. 
Of gleaming glass or jewels on her wrist. 
Blossoms or fillet-pearls to deck her head, 
Or jasmine garlands to adorn her bed ? 



Put by the mirror of her bridal days. . . . 
Why needs she now its counsel or its praise. 
Or happy symbol of the henna leaf 
For hands that know the comradeship of grief, 
Red spices for her lips that drink of sighs, 
Or black collyrium for her weeping eyes ? 

13 



Shatter her shining bracelets, break the string 
Threading the mystic marriage-beads that cling 
Loth to desert a sobbing throat so sweet, 
Unbind the golden anklets on her feet. 
Divest her of her azure veils and cloud 
Her living beauty in a living shroud. 

• • • • • 

Nay, let her be ! . . . what comfort can we give 

For joy so frail, for hope so fugitive ? 

The yearning pain of unfulfilled delight. 

The moonless vigils of her lonely night. 

For the abysmal anguish of her tears, 

And flowering springs that mock her empty years ? 



14 



An Indian Love Song 

Written to an Indian tune 

He : 

Lift up the veils that darken the delicate moon of thy 

glory and grace, 
Withhold not, O Love, from the night of my longing 

the joy of thy luminous face. 
Give me a spear of the scented keora guarding thy 

pinioned curls. 
Or a silken thread from the fringes that trouble the 

dream of thy glimmering pearls ; 
Faint grows my soul with thy tresses' perfume and 

the song of thy anklets' caprice. 
Revive me, I pray, with the magical nectar that 

dwells in the flower of thy kiss. 



15 



She : 
How shall I yield to the voice of thy pleading, how 

shall I grant thy prayer, 
Or give thee a rose-red silken tassel, a scented leaf 

from my hair ? 
Or fling in the flame of thy heart's desire the veils 

that cover my face. 
Profane the law of my father's creed for a foe of my 

father's race ? 
Thy kinsmen have broken our sacred altars and 

slaughtered our sacred kine, 
The feud of old faiths and the blood of old battles 

sever thy people and mine. 



i6 



He: 

What are the sins of my race, Beloved, what are my 

people to thee ? 
And what are thy shrine, and kine and kindred, what 

are thy gods to me ? 
Love recks not of feuds and bitter follies, of stranger, 

comrade or kin. 
Alike in his ear sound the temple bells and the cry of 

the muezzin. 
For Love shall cancel the ancient wrong and conquer 

the ancient rage. 
Redeem with his tears the memoried sorrow that 

sullied a bygone age. 



17 



In Remembrance 

Violet Clarke — died March 2 1 , 1 909 

With eager knowledge of our ancient lore, 
And prescient love of all our ancient race, 
You came to us, with gentle hands that bore 
Bright gifts of genius, youth, and subtle grace. 

Our shrines, our sacred streams, our sumptuous art. 
Old hills that scale the sky's unageing dome, 
Recalled some long-lost rapture to your heart. 
Some far-off memory of your spirit's home. 

• • • • • 

We said : " She comes, an exquisite, strange flower 
From the rich gardens of a northern king ". . . 
But lo ! our souls perceived you in that hour 
The very rose whereof our poets sing. 
18 



Who sped your beauty's seed across the sea, 
Bidding you burgeon in that aUen clime ? 
And what prophetic wind of destiny 
Restored you to us in your flowering time 

For a brief season to delight and bless 

Our hearts with delicate splendour and perfume, 

Till Death usurped your vivid loveliness 

In wanton envy of its radiant bloom ? 

O frail, miraculous flower, tho' you are dead. 
The deathless fragrance of your spirit cleaves 
To the dear wreath whereon our tears are shed. 
Of your sweet wind-blown and love-garnered Leaves. 



* 



* " Leaves " is the title of her book of stories, 
published after her death. 

19 



Love and Death 

I DREAMED my lovc had set thy spirit free. 

Enfranchised thee from Fate's o'ermastering power. 

And girt thy being with a scatheless dower 

Of rich and joyous immortality ; 

O Love, I dreamed my soul had ransomed thee, 

In thy lone, dread, incalculable hour 

From those pale hands at which all mortals cower. 

And conquered Death by Love, like Savitri. 

When I awoke, alas, my love was vain 

E'en to annul one throe of destined pain. 

Or by one heart-beat to prolong thy breath ; 

O Love, alas, that love could not assuage 

The burden of thy human heritage. 

Or save thee from the swift decrees of Death. 



20 



The Dance of Love 

Written for Madame Liza Lehmann 

The music sighs and slumbers. 

It stirs and sleeps again . . . 

Hush, it wakes and weeps and murmurs 

Like a woman's heart in pain ; 

Now it laughs and calls and coaxes. 

Like a lover in the night. 

Now it pants with sudden longing. 

Now it sobs with spent delight. 

Like bright and wind-blown lilies, 

The dancers sway and shine. 

Swift in a rhythmic circle. 

Soft in a rhythmic line ; 

Their lithe limbs gleam like amber 

21 



Thro' their veils of golden gauze, 
As they glide and bend and beckon, 
As they wheel and wind and pause. 

The voices of lutes and cymbals 
Fail on the failing breeze. 
And the midnight's soul grows weary 
With the scent of the champak trees ; 
But the subtle feet of the dancers 
In a long, returning chain. 
Wake in the heart of lovers 
Love's ecstasy and pain. 



22 



A Love Song from the North 

Tell me no more of thy love, papeeha, 

Wouldst thou recall to my heart, papeeha. 

Dreams of delight that are gone. 

When swift to my side came the feet of my lover 

With stars of the dusk and the dawn ? 

I see the soft wings of the clouds on the river. 

And jewelled with raindrops the mango-leaves quiver. 

And tender boughs flower on the plain. . . . 

But what is their beauty to me, papeeha^ 

Beauty of blossom and shower, papeeha. 

That brings not my lover again ? 

Tell me no more of thy love, papeeha, 
Wouldst thou revive in my heart, papeeha. 
Grief for the joy that is gone ? 

23 



I hear the bright peacock in glimmering woodlands 

Cry to its mate in the dawn ; 

I hear the black koeVs slow, tremulous wooing. 

And sweet in the gardens the calling and cooing 

Of passionate bulbul and dove. . . . 

But what is their music to me, papeeha^ 

Songs of their laughter and loYt^papeeha, 

To me, forsaken of love ? 



The papceha is a bird that comes in Northern 
India when the mangoes are ripe, and calls 
" Pi-kahan^ Pi-kahan ? " — Where is my love ? 



24 



A t Twilight 

On the way to Gokonda 

Weary, I sought kind Death among the rills 

That drink of purple twilight where the plain 

Broods in the shadow of untroubled hills : 

I cried, "High dreams and hope and love are vain, 

Absolve my spirit of its poignant ills. 

And cleanse me from the bondage of my pain ! 

" Shall hope prevail where clamorous hate is rife. 
Shall sweet love prosper or high dreams find place 
Amid the tumult of reverberant strife 
Twixt ancient creeds, 'twixt race and ancient race. 
That mars the grave, glad purposes of life, 
Leaving no refuge save thy succouring face ? " 



25 



E'en as I spake, a mournful wind drew near, 

Heavy with scent of drooping roses shed. 

And incense scattered from the passing bier ^ 

Of some loved woman canopied in red. 

Borne with slow chant and swift-remembering tear, 

To the blind, ultimate silence of the dead. . . . 

O lost, O quenched in unawakening sleep 
The glory of her dear, reluctant eyes ! 
O hushed the eager feet that knew the steep 
And intricate ways of ecstasy and sighs ! 
And dumb with alien slumber, dim and deep. 
The living heart that was love's paradise ! 

Quick with the sense of joys she hath foregone. 
Returned my soul to beckoning joys that wait. 
Laughter of children and the lyric dawn. 
And love's delight, profound and passionate. 
Winged dreams that blow their golden clarion. 
And hope that conquers immemorial hate. 

26 



Al 



one 



Alone, O Love, I seek the blossoming glades, 
The bright, accustomed alleys of delight, 
Pomegranate-gardens of the mellowing dawn, 
Serene and sumptuous orchards of the night. 

Alone, O Love, I breast the shimmering waves. 
The changing tides of life's familiar streams. 
Wide seas of hope, swift rivers of desire. 
The moon-enchanted estuary of dreams. 

But no compassionate wind or comforting star 
Brings me sweet word of thine abiding place . . 
In what predestined hour of joy or tears 
Shall I attain the sanctuary of thy face ? 



27 



A Rajput Love Song 

[Parvati at her lattice\ 

O Love ! were you a basil-wreath to twine among 

my tresses, 
A jewelled clasp of shining gold to bind around 

my sleeve, 
O Love ! were you the keoras soul that haunts my 

silken raiment, 
A bright, vermilion tassel in the girdles that I 

weave ; 

O Love ! were you the scented fan that lies upon 

my pillow, 
A sandal lute, or silver lamp that burns before my 

shrine, 
28 



Why should I fear the jealous dawn that spreads 

with cruel laughter, 
Sad veils of separation between your face and mine ? 



Haste ^ O wild-bee hours to the gardens of the sunset I 
F/y, wild-parrot day to the orchards of the west ! 
Come^ O tender nighty with your sweety consoling darkness^ 
And bring me my Beloved to the shelter oj my breast ! 



[Amar Singh in the saddle] 

O Love ! were you the hooded hawk upon my hand 
that flutters, 

Its collar-band of gleaming bells atinkle as I ride, 

O Love ! were you a turban-spray or floating heron- 
feather, 

The radiant, swift, unconquered sword that swingeth 

at my side ; 

29 



O Love ! were you a shield against the arrows of my 

foemen. 
An amulet of jade against the perils of the way. 
How should the drum-beats of the dawn divide me 

from your bosom, 
Or the union of the midnight be ended with the 

day ? 

Haste, O wild-deer hours, to the meadows of the sunset ! 
Fly, wild stallion day, to the pastures of the west ! 
Come O tranquil night, with your soft, consenting 

darkness. 
And bear me to the fragrance of ?ny "^e loved' s breast I 



30 



A Persian Love Song 

O Love ! I know not why, when you are glad, 
Gaily my glad heart leaps. 

Love ! I know not why, when you are sad, 
Wildly my sad heart weeps. 

1 know not why, if sweet be your repose. 
My waking heart finds rest. 

Or if your eyes be dim with pain, sharp throes 
Of anguish rend my breast. 

Hourly this subtle mystery flowers anew, 
O Love, I know not why . . . 
Unless it be, perchance, that I am you. 
Dear love, that you are I ! 



31 



To Love 

O Love ! of all the riches that are mine, 
What gift have I withheld before thy shrine ? 

What tender ecstasy of prayer and praise 
Or lyric flower of my impassioned days ? 

What poignant dream have I denied to thee 
Of secret hope, desire and memory ; 

Or intimate anguish of sad years, long dead. 
Old griefs unstaunched, old fears uncomforted ? 

What radiant prophecies that thrill and throng 
The unborn years with swift delight of song ? 

O Love ! of all the treasures that I own, 
What gift have I withheld before thy throne ? 
32 



Songs of the Springtime 



Spring 

Young leaves grow green on the banyan twigs, 
And red on the peepul tree, 
The honey-birds pipe to the budding figs, 
And honey-blooms call the bee. 

Poppies' squander their fragile gold 
In the silvery aloe-brake. 
Coral and ivory lilies unfold 
Their delicate lives on the lake. 

Kingfishers ruffle the feathery sedge. 
And all the vivid air thrills 
With butterfly-wings in the wild-rose hedge, 
And the luminous blue of the hills. 

35 



Kamala tinkles a lingering foot 
In the grove where temple-bells ring, 
And Krishna plays on his bamboo flute 
An idyl of love and spring. 



36 



A Song in Spring 

Wild bees that rifle the mango blossom. 
Set free awhile from the love-god's string, 
Wild birds that sway in the citron branches, 
Drunk with the rich, red honey of spring, 

Fireflies weaving aerial dances 

In fragile rhythms of flickering gold. 

What do you know in your blithe, brief season 

Of dreams deferred and a heart grown old ? 

But the wise winds know, as they pause to slacken 
The speed of their subtle, omniscient flight. 
Divining the magic of unblown lilies. 
Foretelling the stars of the unborn night. 

37 



They have followed the hurrying feet of pilgrims. 
Tracking swift prayers to their utmost goals. 
They have spied on Love's old and changeless secret, 
And the changing sorrow of human souls. 

They have tarried with Death in her parleying-places. 
And issued the word of her high decree. 
Their wings have winnowed the garnered sunlight. 
Their lips have tasted the purple sea. 



38 



The Joy of the Springtime 

Springtime, O Springtime, what is your essence. 
The lilt of a bulbul, the laugh of a rose, 
The dance of the dew on the wings of a moonbeam. 
The voice of the zephyr that sings as he goes. 
The hope of a bride or the dream of a maiden 
Watching the petals of gladness unclose ? 

Springtime, O Springtime, what is your secret. 
The bliss at the core of your magical mirth. 
That quickens the pulse of the morning to wonder 
And hastens the seeds of all beauty to birth. 
That captures the heavens and conquers to blossom 
The roots of delight in the heart of the earth ? 



39 



Vasant Panchami 

Lilavatt's Lament at the Feast of Spring 

Go, dragon-fly, fold up your purple wing, 
Why will you bring me tidings of the spring ? 
O lilting koels^ hush your rapturous notes, 
O dhadikulas, still your passionate throats. 
Or seek some further garden for your nest . . . 
Your songs are poisoned arrows in my breast. 

O quench your flame, ye crimson gulmohors. 
That flaunt your dazzling bloom across my doors, 
Furl your white bells, sweet champa buds that call 
Wild bees to your ambrosial festival. 
And hold your breath, O dear sirisha trees . . . 
You slay my heart with bitter memories. 



40 



joyous girls who rise at break of morn 
With sandal-soil your thresholds to adorn, 

Ye brides who streamward bear on jewelled feet 
Your gifts of silver lamps and new-blown wheat, 

1 pray you dim your voices when you sing 
Your radiant salutations to the spring. 



Hai ! what have I to do with nesting birds. 
With lotus-honey, corn and ivory curds. 
With plantain blossom and pomegranate fruit, 
Or rose-wreathed lintels and rose-scented lute. 
With lighted shrines and fragrant altar-fires 
Where happy women breathe their hearts' desires ? 



For my sad life is doomed to be, alas. 

Ruined and sere like sorrow-trodden grass. 

My heart hath grown, plucked by the wind of grief, 

Akin to fallen flower and faded leaf, 

£ 41 



Akin to every lone and withered thing 
That hath foregone the kisses of the spring. 



The Vasant Panchami is the spring festival when 
Hindu girls and married women carry gifts of lighted 
lamps and new-grown corn as offerings to the goddess of 
the spring and set thetn afloat on the face of the waters. 
Hindu widows cannot take part in any festive cere- 
monials. Their portion it sorrow and austerity. 
42 



In a Time of Flowers 

O Love ! do you know the spring is here 

With the lure of her magic flute ? . . . 

The old earth breaks into passionate bloom 

At the kiss of her fleet, gay foot. 

The burgeoning leaves on the almond boughs, 

And the leaves on the blue wave's breast 

Are crowned with the limpid and delicate light 

Of the gems in your turban-crest. 

The bright pomegranate buds unfold. 

The frail wild lilies appear. 

Like the blood-red jewels you used to fling 

O'er the maidens that danced at the feast of spring 

To welcome the new-born year. 



43 



O Love ! do you know the spring is here ? . . . 

The dawn and the dusk grow rife 

With scent and song and tremulous mirth. 

The blind, rich travail of life. 

The winds are drunk with the odorous breath 

Of henna, saris ha, and neem . . . 

Do they ruffle your cold, strange, tranquil sleep. 

Or trouble your changeless dream 

With poignant thoughts of the world you loved. 

And the beauty you held so dear ? 

Do you long for a brief, glad hour to wake 

From your lonely slumber for sweet love's sake, 

To welcome the new-born year ? 



44 



In Praise of Gulmohur Blossoms 

What can rival your lovely hue 

O gorgeous boon of the spring ? 

The glimmering red of a bridal robe. 

Rich red of a wild bird's wing ? 

Or the mystic blaze of the gem that burns 

On the brow of a serpent-king ? 

What can rival the valiant joy 

Of your dazzling, fugitive sheen ? 

The limpid clouds of the lustrous dawn 

That colour the ocean's mien ? 

Or the blood that poured from a thousand breasts 

To succour a Rajput queen ? * 

* Queen Padmini of Chiiore, famous in Indian history 
and song. 

45 



What can rival the radiant pride 

Of your frail, victorious fire ? 

The flame of hope or the flame of hate, 

Quick flame of my heart's desire ? 

Or the rapturous light that leaps to heaven 

From a true wife's funeral pyre ? 



46 



Nasturtiums 

Poignant and subtle and bitter perfume, 
Exquisite, luminous, passionate bloom, 
Your leaves interwoven of fragrance and fire 
Are Savitri's sorrow and Sita's desire, 
Draupadi's longing, Damayanti's fears. 
And sweetest Sakuntala's magical tears. 



These are the immortal women of Sanscrit legend and 
song, whose poignant sorrows and radiant virtues still 
break the heart and inspire the lives of Indian women, 

47 



Golden Cassia 

O BRILLIANT blossonis that strew my way, 
You are only woodland flowers they say. 



But, I sometimes think that perchance you are 
Fragments of some new-fallen star ; 



Or golden lamps for a fairy shrine. 
Or golden pitchers for fairy wine. 



Perchance you are, O frail and sweet ! 
Bright anklet-bells from the wild spring's feet, 
48 



Or the gleaming tears that some fair bride shed 
Remembering her lost maidenhead. 

But now, in the memoried dusk you seem 
The glimmering ghosts of a bygone dream. 



49 



Champak Blossoms 

Amber petals, ivory petals, 

Petals of carven jade, 

Charming with your ambrosial sweetness 

Forest and field and glade. 

Foredoomed in your hour of transient glory 

To shrivel and shrink and fade ! 



Tho' mango blossoms have long since vanished, 

And orange blossoms be shed. 

They live anew in the luscious harvests 

Of ripening yellow and red ; 

But you, when your delicate bloom is over. 

Will reckon amongst the dead. 

50 



Only to girdle a girl's dark tresses 

Your fragrant hearts are uncurled : 

Only to garland the vernal breezes 

Your fragile stars are unfurled. 

You make no boast in your purposeless beauty 

To serve or profit the v^orld. 

Yet, 'tis of you thro* the moonlit ages 

That maidens and minstrels sing. 

And lay your buds on the great god's altar, 

O radiant blossoms that fling 

Your rich, voluptuous, magical perfume 

To ravish the winds of spring. 



51 



Ecstasy 

Heart, O my heart ! lo, the springtime is waking 

In meadow and grove. 
Lo, the melHfluous koels are making 

Their paeans of love. 
Behold the bright rivers and rills in their glancing, 

Melodious flight, 
Behold how the sumptuous peacocks are dancing 

In rhythmic delight. 

Shall we in the midst of life's exquisite chorus 

Remember our grief, 
O heart, when the rapturous season is o'er us 

Of blossom and leaf? 
52 



Their joy from the birds and the streams let us borrow, 

O heart ! let us sing, 
The years are before us for weeping and sorrow . . . 

To-day it is spring ! 



53 



\ 



Indian Folk-Songs 

To Indian Tunes 



Village Song 

Full are my pitchers and far to carry, 

Lone is the way and long, 

Why, O why was I tempted to tarry 

Lured by the boatmen's song ? 

Swiftly the shadows of night are falling. 

Hear, O hear, is the white crane calling. 

Is it the wild owl's cry ? 

There are no tender moonbeams to light me, 

If in the darkness a serpent should bite me. 

Or if an evil spirit should smite me. 

Ram re Ram I I shall die. 

My brother will murmur "Why doth she linger ? " 
My mother will wait and weep. 
Saying, "O safe may the great gods bring her. 
The Jamuna's waters are deep." . . . 

G 57 



The Jamuna's waters rush by so quickly. 

The shadows of evening gather so thickly. 

Like black birds in the sky. . . . 

O ! if the storm breaks, what will betide me ? 

Safe from the lightning where shall I hide me ? 

Unless Thou succour my footsteps and guide me. 

Ram re Ram ! I shall die. 



58 



slumber Song for Sunalini 

In a 'Bengalee metre 

Where the golden, glowing 
Champak-buds are blowing, 
By the swiftly-flowing streams, 
Now, when day is dying. 
There are fairies flying 
Scattering a cloud of dreams. 

Slumber-spirits winging 

Thro' the forest singing. 

Flutter hither bringing soon, 

Baby-visions sheeny 

For my Sunalini . . . 

Hush thee, O my pretty moon ! 

Sweet, the saints shall bless thee . . . 

Hush, mine arms caress thee, 

59 



Hash, my heart doth press thee, sleep. 
Till the red dawn dances 
Breaking thy soft trances, 
Sleep, my Sunalini, sleep ! 



60 



Songs of my City 

I. In a Latticed Balcony 

How shall I feed thee, Beloved ? 
On golden-red honey and fruit. 
How shall I please thee, Beloved ? 
With til voice of the cymbal and lute. 

How shall I garland thy tresses ? 
With pearls from the jessamine close. 
How shall I perfume thy fingers ? 
With til soul of the keora and rose. 

How shall I deck thee, O Dearest ? 
In hues of the peacock and dove. 
How shall I woo thee, O Dearest ? 
With the delicate silence of love. 

6i 



II. In the Bazaars of Hyderabad 

To a tune of the bazaars 

What do you sell, O ye merchants ? 
Richly your wares are displayed. 
Turbans of crimson and silver^ 
Tunics of purple brocade^ 
Mirrors with panels of amber ^ 
Daggers with handles of jade. 

What do you weigh, O yc vendors ? 
Safron and lentil and rice. 
What do you grind, O ye maidens ? 
Sandalwood, henna, and spice. 
What do you call, O ye pedlars ? 
Chessmen and ivory dice. 

What do you make, O ye goldsmiths ? 

Wristlet and anklet and ring, 
62 



Bells for the feet of blue pigeons^ 
Frail as a dragon-flf s wing. 
Girdles of gold for the dancers. 
Scabbards of gold for the king. 

What do you cry, O ye fruitmen ? 
Citron, pomegranate, and plum. 
What do you play, O musicians ? 
Cithdr, sarangt, and drum. 
What do you chant, O magicians ? 
Spells for the ceons to come. 

What do you weave, O ye flower-girls 
With tassels of azure and red ? 
Crowns for the brow of a bridegroom. 
Chap lets to garland his bed. 
Sheets of white blossoms new-gathered 
To perfume the sleep of the dead. 



63 



Bangle-sellers 

Bangle-sellers are we who bear 

Our shining loads to the temple fair. . . . 

Who will buy these delicate, bright 

Ralnbow-tlnted circles of light ? 

Lustrous tokens of radiant lives, 

For happy daughters and happy wives. 

Some are meet for a maiden's wrist. 
Silver and blue as the mountaln-mlst. 
Some are flushed like the buds that dream 
On the tranquil brow of a woodland stream ; 
Some are aglow with the bloom that cleaves 
To the limpid glory of new-born leaves. 



64 



Some are like fields of sunlit corn. 
Meet for a bride on her bridal morn. 
Some, like the flame of her marriage fire, 
Or rich with the hue of her heart's desire, 
Tinkling, luminous, tender, and clear, 
Like her bridal laughter and bridal tear. 

Some are purple and gold-flecked grey. 
For her who has journeyed thro' life midway. 
Whose hands have cherished, whose love has blest 
And cradled fair sons on her faithful breast. 
Who serves her household in fruitful pride. 
And worships the gods at her husband's side. 



H 65 



The Festival of Serpents 

Shining ones awake, we seek your chosen temples 

In caves and sheltering sandhills and sacred banyan 
roots ; 

O lift your dreaming heads from their trance of age- 
less wisdom, 

And weave your mystic measures to the melody of 
flutes. 

We bring you milk and maize, wild figs and golden 

honey. 
And kindle fragrant incense to hallow all the air. 
With fasting lips we pray, with fervent hearts we 

praise you, 
O bless our lowly offerings and hearken to our 

prayer. 
66 



Guard our helpless lives and guide our patient 

labours, 
And cherish our dear vision like the jewels in your 

crests ; 
O spread your hooded watch for the safety of our 

slumbers, 
And soothe the troubled longings that clamour in 

our breasts. 

Swift are ye as streams and soundless as the dewfall. 
Subtle as the lightning and splendid as the sun ; 
Seers are ye and symbols of the ancient silence, 
Where life and death and sorrow and ecstasy are 
one. 



67 



Song of Radha the Milkmaid 

I CARRIED my curds to the Mathura fair. . . . 
How softly the heifers were lowing. . . . 
I wanted to cry " Who will buy, who will buy 
These curds that are white as the clouds in the sky 
When the breezes of Shrawan are blowing ? '* 
But my heart was so full of your beauty, Beloved, 
They laughed as I cried without knowing : 

Govinda ! Govinda ! 

Govinda I Govinda ! , . , 
How softly the river was flowing ! 

I carried my pots to the Mathura tide. . . . 

How gaily the rowers were rowing ! . . . 

My comrades called " Ho ! let us dance, let us sing 

And wear saffron garments to welcome the spring, 

68 



And pluck the new buds that are blowing." 
But my heart was so full of your music, Beloved, 
They mocked when I cried without knowing : 

Govinda ! Govinda ! 

Govinda ! Govinda I . . . 
How gaily the river was flowing ! 

I carried my gifts to the Mathura shrine. . . . 

How brightly the torches were glowing ! . . . 

I folded my hands at the altars to pray 

" O shining Ones guard us by night and by day " — 

And loudly the conch shells were blowing. 

But my heart was so lost in your worship. Beloved, 

They were wroth when I cried without knowing : 

Govinda I Govinda ! 

Govinda ! Govinda / . . . * 

How brightly the river was flowing ! 



Mathura is the chief centre of the mystic worship of 
Khrishna, the Divine Cowherd and Musician — the 
" 'Diz'itie Beloved" of every Hindu heart. He is also 
called Govinda. 

69 



spinning Song 

Pamdini : 
My sisters plucked green leaves at morn 
To deck the garden swing, 
And donned their shining golden veils 
For the Festival of Spring. . . . 
But sw^eeter than the new-blown vines, 
And the call of nesting birds 
Are the tendrils of your hair. Beloved, 
And the music of your words. 

Mayura : 
My sisters sat beside the hearth 
Kneading the saffron cakes. 
They gathered honey from the hives 
For the Festival of Snakes. . . . 
70 



Why should I wake the jewelled lords 
With offerings or vows, 
Who wear the glory of your love 
Like a jewel on my brows ? 

Sarasvati : 
My sisters sang at evenfall 
A hymn of ancient rites, 
And kindled rows of silver lamps 
For the Festival of Lights. . . . 
But I leaned against the lattice-door 
To watch the kindling skies, 
And praised the gracious gods, Beloved, 
For the beauty of your eyes. 



The Festivals are known respective^ as the Vasant 
Panchami, Nagpanchami, and Depavali. 

71 



Hymn to Indra, Lord of Rain 

Men's Voices : 
O Thou, who rousest the voice of the thunder, 
And biddest the storms to awake from their sleep. 
Who breakest the strength of the mountains asunder, 
And cleavest the manifold pride of the deep ! 
Thou, who with bountiful torrent and river 
Dost nourish the heart of the forest and plain. 
Withhold not Thy gifts O Omnipotent Giver ! 
Hearken, O Lord of Rain ! 

Women's Voices : 
O Thou, who wieldest Thy deathless dominion 
O'er mutable legions of earth and the sky. 
Who grantest the eagle the joy of her pinion. 
And teachest the young of the koel to fly ! 
72 



Thou who art mighty to succour and cherish, 
Who savest from sorrow and shieldest from pain, 
Withhold not Thy merciful love, or we perish, 
Hearken, O Lord of Rain ! 



73 



Songs of Life 



Death and Life 

Death stroked my hair and whispered tenderly : 

" Poor child, shall I redeem thee from thy pain, 

Renew thy joy and issue thee again 

Inclosed in some renascent ecstasy . . . 

Some lilting bird or lotus-loving bee. 

Or the diaphanous silver of the rain, 

Th' alluring scent of the sirisha-plain. 

The wild wind's voice, the white wave's melody ? " 

I said, " Thy gentle pity shames mine ear, 

O Death, am I so purposeless a thing. 

Shall my soul falter or my body fear 

Its poignant hour of bitter suffering. 

Or fail ere I achieve my destined deed 

Of song or service for my country's need ? " 



77 



The Hussain Saagar 

The young dawn woos thee with his amorous grace, 

The journeying clouds of sunset pause and hover, 

Drinking the beauty of thy luminous face. 

But none thine inmost glory may discover. 

For thine evasive silver doth enclose 

What secret purple and what subtle rose 

Responsive only to the wind, thy lover. 

Only for him thy shining waves unfold 

Translucent music answering his control ; 

Thou dost, like me, to one allegiance hold, 

O lake, O living image of my soul. 



78 



The Faery Isle of Janjira 

To Her Highness O^z/i Raffia^ Begum ofjanjira 

Fain would I dwell in your faery kingdom, 
O faery queen of a flowering clime. 
Where life glides by to a delicate measure, 
With the glamour and grace of a far-off time. 

Fain would I dwell where your wild doves wander. 
Your palm-woods burgeon and sea-winds sing. . . , 
Lulled by the rune of the rhythmic waters, 
In your Island of Bliss it is always spring. 

Yet must I go where the loud world beckons. 
And the urgent drum-beat of destiny calls, 
Far from your white dome's luminous slumber. 
Far from the dream of your fortress walls, 

79 



Into the strife of the throng and the tumult, 
The war of sweet Love against folly and wrong ; 
Where brave hearts carry the sword of battle, 
'Tis mine to carry the banner of song. 

The solace of faith to the lips that falter, 
The succour of hope to the hands that fail. 
The tidings of joy when Peace shall triumph, 
When Truth shall conquer and Love prevail. 



80 



The Soul's Prayer 

In childhood's pride I said to Thee : 
" O Thou, who mad'st me of Thy breath, 
Speak, Master, and reveal to me 
Thine inmost laws of life and death. 

" Give me to drink each joy and pain 
Which Thine eternal hand can mete, 
For my insatiate soul would drain 
Earth's utmost bitter, utmost sweet. 

" Spare me no bliss, no pang of strife. 
Withhold no gift or grief I crave. 
The intricate lore of love and life 
And mystic knowledge of the grave." 

K 8i 



Lord, Thou didst answer stern and low : 
" Child, I will hearken to thy prayer, 
And thy unconquered soul shall know 
All passionate rapture and despair. 

"Thou shalt drink deep of joy and fame, 
And love shall burn thee like a fire. 
And pain shall cleanse thee like a flame, 
To purge the dross from thy desire. 

" So shall thy chastened spirit yearn 
To seek from its blind prayer release, 
And spent and pardoned, sue to learn 
The simple secret of My peace. 

" I, bending from my sevenfold height 
Will teach thee of My quickening grace. 
Life is a prism of My lights 
And Death the shadow of My face'' 



82 



Transience 

Nay, do not grieve tho' life be full of sadness, 
Dawn will not veil her splendour for your grief. 
Nor spring deny their bright, appointed beauty 
To lotus blossom and ashoka leaf. 

Nay, do not pine, tho' life be dark with trouble. 
Time will not pause or tarry on his way ; 
To-day that seems so long, so strange, so bitter. 
Will soon be some forgotten yesterday. 

Nay, do not weep ; new hopes, new dreams, new faces, 
The unspent joy of all the unborn years. 
Will prove your heart a traitor to its sorrow. 
And make your eyes unfaithful to their tears. 



83 



The Old Woman 

A LONELY old woman sits out in the street 
'Neath the boughs of a banyan tree, 
And hears the bright echo of hurrying feet, 
The pageant of life going blithely and fleet 
To the feast of eternity. 

Her tremulous hand holds a battered white bowl. 

If perchance in your pity you fling her a dole ; 

She is poor, she is bent, she is blind, 

But she lifts a brave heart to the jest of the days. 

And her withered, brave voice croons its paean of 

praise. 

Be the gay world kind or unkind : 

" La ilaha illa-l-Allah, 

La tlaha illa-l-Allah^ 

Muhammad-ar-Kasul- Allah . * ' 
84 



In hope of your succour, how often in vain. 
So patient she sits at my gates, 
In the face of the sun and the wind and the rain, 
Holding converse with poverty, hunger and pain. 
And the ultimate sleep that awaits. . . . 
In her youth she hath comforted lover and son, 
In her weary old age, O dear God, is there none 
To bless her tired eyelids to rest ? . . . 
Tho' the world may not tarry to help her or heed. 
More clear than the cry of her sorrow and need 
Is the faith that doth solace her breast : 
" laU ilaha illa-l-Allah^ 
La ilaha tlla-l-Allah^ 
Muhammad-ar-Rasul- Allah. 



85 



In the Night 



Sleep, O my little ones, sleep. 
Safe till the daylight be breaking . . . 
We have long vigils to keep, 
Harvests to sow while you sleep. 
Fair for the hour of your waking, 
Ripe for your sickles to reap. 

Sleep, O my little ones, sleep. 
Yours is the golden To-morrow, 
Yours are the hands that will reap 
Dreams that we sow while you sleep. 
Fed with our hope and our sorrow, 
Rich with the tears that we weep. 



86 



At Dawn 

Children, my children, the daylight is breaking, 
The cymbals of morn sound the hour of your waking, 
The long night is o'er, and our labour is ended. 
Fair blow the fields that we tilled and we tended, 
Swiftly the harvest grows mellow for reaping, 
The harvest we sowed in the time of your sleeping. 

Weak were our hands but our service was tender. 
In darkness we dreamed of the dawn of your 

splendour. 
In silence we strove for the joy of the morrow. 
And watered your seeds from the wells of our 

sorrow. 
We toiled to enrich the glad hour of your waking. 
Our vigil is done, lo ! the daylight is breaking. 

87 



Children, my children, who wake to inherit 

The ultimate hope of our travailing spirit. 

Say, when your young hearts shall take to their 

keeping 
The manifold dreams we have sown for your reaping, 
Is it praise, is it pain you will grant us for guerdon ? 
Anoint with your love or arraign with your pardon ? 



88 



An Anthem of Love 

Two hands are we to serve thee, O our Mother, 
To strive and succour, cherish and unite ; 
Two feet are we to cleave the waning darkness. 
And gain the pathways of the dawning light. 

Two ears are we to catch the nearing echo. 
The sounding cheer of Time's prophetic horn ; 
Two eyes are we to reap the crescent glory, 
The radiant promise of renascent morn. 

One heart are we to love thee, O our Mother, 
One undivided, indivisible soul. 
Bound by one hope, one purpose, one devotion 
Towards a great, divinely-destined goal. 



89 



Solitude 

Let us rise, O my heart, let us go where the twiHght 
is calHng 

Far away from the sound of this lonely and menacing 
crowd, 

To the glens, to the glades, where the magical dark- 
ness is falling 

In rivers of gold from the breast of a radiant cloud. 

Come away, come away from this throng and its 

tumult of sorrow. 
There is rest, there is peace from the pang of its 

manifold strife 
Where the halcyon night holds in trust the dear 

songs of the morrow. 
And the silence is but a rich pause in the music of life. 
90 



Let us climb where the eagles keep guard on the 

rocky grey ledges, 
Let us lie 'neath the palms where perchance we may 

listen, and reach 
A delicate dream from the lips of the slumbering 

sedges, 
That catch from the stars some high tone of their 

mystical speech. 

Or perchance, we may glean a far glimpse of the 

Infinite Bosom 
In whose glorious shadow all life is unfolded or 

furled. 
Thro' the luminous hours ere the lotus of dawn shall 

reblossom 
In petals of splendour to worship the Lord of the 

world. 



91 



A Challenge to Fate 

Why will you vex me with your futile conflict, 
Why will you strive with me, O foolish Fate ? 
You cannot break me with your poignant envy, 
You cannot slay me with your subtle hate : 
For all the cruel folly you pursue 
I will not cry with suppliant hands to you. 

You may perchance wreck in your bitter malice 

The radiant empire of mine eager eyes . . . 

Say, can you rob my memory's dear dominion 

0*er sunlit mountains and sidereal skies ? 

In my enduring treasuries I hold 

Their ageless splendour of unravished gold. 

You may usurp the kingdoms of my hearing . . . 
Say, shall my scatheless spirit cease to hear 
92 



The bridal rapture of the blowing valleys, 
The lyric pageant of the passing year. 
The sounding odes and surging harmonies 
Of battling tempests and unconquered seas ? 

Yea, you may smite my mouth to throbbing 

silence. 
Pluck from my lips power of articulate words . . . 
Say, shall my heart lack its familiar language 
While earth has nests for her mellifluous birds ? 
Shall my impassioned heart forget to sing 
With the ten thousand voices of the spring ? 

Yea, you may quell my blood with sudden anguish, 
Fetter my limbs with some compelling pain . . . 
How will you daunt my free, far-journeying fancy 
That rides upon the pinions of the rain ? 
How will you tether my triumphant mind. 
Rival and fearless comrade of the wind ? 



93 



Tho' you deny the hope of all my being, 
Betray my love, my sweetest dream destroy. 
Yet will I slake my individual sorrow 
At the deep source of Universal joy. . . . 
O Fate, in vain you hanker to control 
My frail, serene, indomitable soul. 



94 



The Call to Evening Prayer 

Allah ho Akhar ! Allah ho Akbar I 
From mosque and minar the muezzins are calling ; 
Pour forth your praises, O Chosen of Islam ; 
Swiftly the shadows of sunset are falling : 
Allah ho Akbar ! Allah ho Akbar ! 

Ave Maria ! Ave Maria I 
Devoutly the priests at the altars are singing ; 
O ye who worship the Son of the Virgin, 
Make your orisons, the vespers are ringing : 
Ave Maria ! Ave Maria I 

Ahura Mazda I Ahura Mazda ! 
How the sonorous Avesta is flowing ! 

95 



Ye, who to Flame and the light make obeisance. 
Bend low where the quenchless blue torches are 
glowing : 

Ahura Mazda I Ahura Mazda ! 

Narayyana ! Narayyana ! 

Hark to the ageless, divine invocation ! 

Lift up your hands, O ye children of Bramha, 

Lift up your voices in rapt adoration : 

Narayyana ! Naray'yana ! 



96 



An Anthem of Love 

Two hands are we to serve thee, O our Mother, 
To strive and succour, cherish and unite ; 
Two feet are we to cleave the waning darkness, 
And gain the pathways of the dawning light. 

Two ears are we to catch the nearing echo. 
The sounding cheer of Time's prophetic horn ; 
Two eyes are we to reap the crescent glory, 
The radiant promise of renascent morn. 

One heart are we to love thee, O our Mother, 
One undivided, indivisible soul. 
Bound by one hope, one purpose, one devotion 
Towards a great, divinely-destined goal. 



89 



Solitude 

Let us rise, O my heart, let us go where the twihght 
is calling 

Far away from the sound of this lonely and menacing 
crowd, 

To the glens, to the glades, where the magical dark- 
ness is falling 

In rivers of gold from the breast of a radiant cloud. 

Come away, come away from this throng and its 

tumult of sorrow. 
There is rest, there is peace from the pang of its 

manifold strife 
Where the halcyon night holds in trust the dear 

songs of the morrow. 
And the silence is but a rich pause in the music of life. 
90 



Let us climb where the eagles keep guard on the 

rocky grey ledges, 
Let us lie 'neath the palms where perchance we may 

listen, and reach 
A delicate dream from the lips of the slumbering 

sedges, 
That catch from the stars some high tone of their 

mystical speech. 

Or perchance, we may glean a far glimpse of the 

Infinite Bosom 
In whose glorious shadow all life is unfolded or 

furled, 
Thro' the luminous hours ere the lotus of dawn shall 

reblossom 
In petals of splendour to worship the Lord of the 

world. 



91 



A Challenge to Fate 

Why will you vex me with your futile conflict, 
Why will you strive with me, O foolish Fate ? 
You cannot break me with your poignant envy, 
You cannot slay me with your subtle hate : 
For all the cruel folly you pursue 
I will not cry with suppliant hands to you. 

You may perchance wreck iti your bitter malice 

The radiant empire of mine eager eyes . . . 

Say, can you rob my memory's dear dominion 

O'er sunlit mountains and sidereal skies ? 

In my enduring treasuries I hold 

Their ageless splendour of unravished gold. 

You may usurp the kingdoms of my hearing . . . 
Say, shall my scatheless spirit cease to hear 
92 



The bridal rapture of the blowing valleys, 
The lyric pageant of the passing year, 
The sounding odes and surging harmonies 
Of battling tempests and unconquered seas ? 

Yea, you may smite my mouth to throbbing 

silence, 
Pluck from my lips power of articulate words . . . 
Say, shall my heart lack its familiar language 
While earth has nests for her mellifluous birds ? 
Shall my impassioned heart forget to sing 
With the ten thousand voices of the spring ? 

Yea, you may quell my blood with sudden anguish. 
Fetter my limbs with some compelling pain . . . 
How will you daunt my free, far-journeying fancy 
That rides upon the pinions of the rain ? 
How will you tether my triumphant mind. 
Rival and fearless comrade of the wind ? 



93 



Tho' you deny the hope of all my being. 
Betray my love, my sweetest dream destroy, 
Yet will I slake my individual sorrow 
At the deep source of Universal joy. . . . 
O Fate, in vain you hanker to control 
My frail, serene, indomitable soul. 



94 



The Call to Evening Prayer 

Allah ho Akbar ! Allah ho Akbar ! 
From mosque and minar the muezzins are calling ; 
Pour forth your praises, O Chosen of Islam ; 
Swiftly the shadows of sunset are falling : 
Allah ho Akbar I Allah ho Akbar ! 

Ave Maria I Ave Maria I 
Devoutly the priests at the altars are singing ; 
O ye who worship the Son of the Virgin, 
Make your orisons, the vespers are ringing : 
Ave Maria ! Ave Maria I 

Ahura Mazda ! Ahura Mazda I 
How the sonorous Avesta is flowing ! 

95 



Ye, who to Flame and the light make obeisance, 
Bend low where the quenchless blue torches arc 
glowing : 

Ahura Mazda ! Ahura Mazda ! 

Narayyana ! Narafyana ! 

Hark to the ageless, divine invocation ! 

Lift up your hands, O ye children of Bramha, 

Lift up your voices in rapt adoration : 

Narayyana ! Narayyana ! 



96 



In Salutation to the Eternal Peace 

Men say the world is full of fear and hate. 
And all life's ripening harvest-fields await 
The restless sickle of relentless fate. 

But I, sweet Soul, rejoice that I was born, 
When from the climbing terraces of corn 
I watch the golden orioles of Thy morn. 

What care I for the world's desire and pride, 
Who know the silver wings that gleam and glide, 
The homing pigeons of Thine eventide ? 

What care I for the world's loud weariness, 
Who dream in twilight granaries Thou dost bless 
With delicate sheaves of mellow silences ? 

M 97 



Say, shall I heed dull presages of doom, 

Or dread the rumoured loneliness and gloom. 

The mute and mythic terror of the tomb ? 

For my glad heart is drunk and drenched with Thee, 
O inmost wine of living ecstasy ! 
O intimate essence of eternity ! 



98 



Medley 

eA Kashmeri Song 

The poppy grows on the roof-top, 
The iris flowers on the grave ; 
Hope in the heart of a lover. 
And fear in the heart of a slave. 

The opal lies in the river. 
The pearl in the ocean's breast ; 
Doubt in a grieving bosom, 
And faith in a heart at rest. 

Fireflies dance in the moon-light. 
Peach-leaves dance in the wind ; 
Dreams and delicate fancies 
Dance thro' a poet's mind. 

99 



Sweetness dwells in the beehive, 
And lives in a maiden's breath ; 
Joy in the eyes of children 
And peace in the hands of Death. 



1 00 



Farewell 



Bright shower of lambent butterflies, 
Soft cloud of murmuring bees, 
O fragile storm of sighing leaves 
Adrift upon the breeze ! 

Wild birds with eager wings outspread 
To seek an alien sky. 
Sweet comrades of a lyric spring. 
My little songs, good-bye ! 



lOI 



Guerdon 



To field and forest 
The gifts of the spring. 
To hawk and to heron 
The pride of their wing ; 
Her grace to the panther. 
Her tints to the dove. . . 
For me, O my Master, 
The rapture of Love ! 



To the hand of the diver 
The gems of the tide. 
To the eyes of the bridegroom 
The face of his bride ; 



1 02 



To the heart of a dreamer 
The dreams of his youth. . . 
For me, O my Master, 
The rapture of Truth ! 

To priests and to prophets 
The joy of their creeds. 
To kings and their cohorts 
The glory of deeds ; 
And peace to the vanquished 
And hope to the strong. . . . 
For me, O my Master, 
The rapture of Song ! 



Printed by 

BALLANTYNE & COMPANY LTD 

AT THE BALLANTYNE PRESS 

Tavistock Street Covent Garden 

London 



Br THE SAMS AUTHOR 

The Golden Threshold 

In one volume 

SOME PRESS OPINIONS 

" In the forefront I must place Sarojini Naidu's exquisitely musical 
collection of Oriental lyrics and poems. This little volume should silence 
for ever the scoffer who declares that women cannot write poetry." — 
Review of Reviews. 

" Her poetry seems to sing itself as if her swift thoughts and strong 
emotions sprang into lyrics of themselves, ... In this case, the marriage 
of western culture with eastern has not proved barren. It has given the 
poet new eyes with which to see old things. The result is something 
unique which we need not hesitate to call poetry." — The Times. 

" A book of verse of undeniable beauty and distinction. . . . Her work 
is remarkable, opening a window through which the West may see the 
East if it will."— T.P.'j Weekly. 

" There are some small poems describing the daily life of the East 
which have an astonishing vividness. It is a rare art which gives the true 
effect of poetry in what is, after all, only the accurate statement of what 
the eye has seen. . . . The book is one not merely of accomplished, but 
beautiful verse, it is the expression of a temperament." — Morning Post. 

" Full of beauty. . . . What is as delightful as surprising is its in- 
dividuality : a perfection of its own that owes but little to any one. . . , 
Not for a very long time have we seen a volume of poetry so full of 
promise and real achievement." — The Academy. 

London : William Heinemann, 2 1 Bedford Street, W.C. 



" Instinct with a graceful delicacy of thought and language." — Saturday 
Review. 

" Delicacy and splendour of rhythm, beauty of phrase, and pomp and 
subtlety of expression are all at her command. . . . Her thought's 
crowning delight is to find radiant utterance. . . . The pictures are of 
the Kast it is true : but there is something fundamentally human in them 
that seems to prove that the best song knows nothing of East or West. 
. . . Street Cries is well worth quoting. This is the true lyric : song, 
picture, and emotion in one." — Glasgow Herald. 

" It is a considerable delight to come across such genuine poetry as is 
contained in The Golden Threshold. It is always musical, its eastern 
colour is fresh, and its firm touch is quick and delicate." — Manchester 
Guardian. 

" The great charm of this gifted poetess is that, though so perfect a 
mistress of the English language, she remains a true Indian in her 
thoughts and imagery. She gives us Indian pictures in English verse 
which have the ring of originality. She copies no one and is always 
herself." — Madras Times. 

"A mystic ring re-echoes through much of Sarojini Naidu's poetry. . . . 
The Golden Threshold has that indescribable charm which acts like 
magic on the English mind." — Miss Lilian Waring in The Englishwoman. 

" Poems of pure gold. . . . Her verses are songs. They have the 
authentic lyric cry. But they have something more significant, something 
rarer. In the forms familiar to the West, she expresses something of the 
soul of the East. . . . Her particular quality is something subtle, some- 
thing of the spirit woven in the very text of the verses. . . . She has 
brought a new note into the English verse of the day . . . working with 
materials fresh in English verse, and in a new way. We have had poems 
before about Hindu life and scenes ; but they were written from the 
outside. For once we hear from the inside ; and the voice is one of 
sympathetic charm and beauty." — Mr. Milton Bronney in Poet Lore. 

London : William Heinemann, 2 1 Bedford Street, W.C. 



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